


claw marks

by estuarie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28997940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estuarie/pseuds/estuarie
Summary: Ñolofinwë finally has the chance to say goodbye.
Relationships: Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Finwë
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	claw marks

**Author's Note:**

> Not a happy one, this. I'm on a self-appointed quest to prove that as a father, Finwë was only slightly better than Denethor son of Ecthelion.
> 
> Title from a quote by David Foster Wallace:  
> "Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."

Námo is terrible and beautiful.

Ñolofinwë kneels as the vala steps into his room. They have spoken many times during his stay in Mandos, but not often enough that Ñolofinwë can have gotten used to the appearance of the silent vala, nor to the muting, choking aura that surrounds him. His robes, ever-shifting and flowing, seem to bring a feeling with them; the feeling of missing a step on a narrow mountain road, of fingers slipping while handling a precious thing, of falling from a tree yet never reaching ground. Privately, Ñolofinwë wonders how anything so horrible can yet be this fair.

“There is nothing that is private in these Halls of mine,” Námo says in his dry monotone. “Have you forgotten?”

“No, lord,” Ñolofinwë says and rises. Námo isn’t much taller than him -- might even be shorter than Maitimo -- but he is immense. Weirdly, he always reminds Ñolofinwë of…

“Fëanáro, yes,” Námo says. “To each his own. The connections your mind makes are largely inconsequential to anyone but you.”

Ñolofinwë does not know what to say to that. He stays still and silent as Námo’s empty eyes look him over, watching and seeing deeper than comfortable. As a little elfling he had been confused by the stories of the Unbegotten and their fear of Oromë: after all, Oromë was so good and kind, and nothing good could ever be scary.

“A fiction of childhood, easily dispelled,” Námo says.

“I wish you would not do that, lord,” Ñolofinwë says because he knows Námo sees it in his mind. “I know my thoughts, you need not speak them out loud.”

“You know your thoughts?” Námo asks. “I shall tell that to Irmo. He might discuss that with you.”

It’s as useless to fight the impulse to roll his eyes as it is to do it for Námo’s physical eyes to see. Still, he does do it and sighs for good measure. Námo almost looks like his stony face might smile.

“I came to inform you that you have a request to make,” he then says. “Son of Finwë.”

There it is again. The feeling of the floor disappearing under his step.

“Truly?” he asks. “What is the request, then? Because I do not recall making any.”

This time, Námo does smile. It looks odd, stretched, but it’s still a smile.

“You wish to meet Finwë, correct?”

Once more. Misstep, slipped fingers, a short fall. Ñolofinwë suddenly finds himself breathless, heart racing in his chest.

“You see,” Námo continues, “I think you are quite ready to depart… but you also know your father has chosen to remain. And so, you are torn. Will you leave and be sundered again from him, or will you stay and be sundered from the world outside?”

“It should be an easy choice,” Ñolofinwë says and looks past Námo, into the darkness behind the vala. By all means, he should be racing to flee these halls, to meet Anairë, to meet Irissë and Finno and Turukáno, Findis and Arafinwë and Lalwendë--

“There’s nothing it should or should not be, for you,” Námo says. “It is what it is. You never got to say goodbye before. Do you wish to see him?”

“You already know,” Ñolofinwë says. “Better than I do, apparently.”

“It is your choice,” Námo says. “Will you remain? Will you depart? Will you meet him later or meet him now -- will you not meet him now, or will you wait to not meet him? Do you even wish to meet him -- do you even know if you wish to see him? I can counsel you, but I will not decide for you.” Surprisingly, he smiles again, somewhat sardonic this time. “Us deciding for the Children has always gone ill, after all.”

“Later,” Ñolofinwë says. “I will… later. How do I find you?”

“Ask,” Námo says and disappears.

It’s only a few days later that he goes to a Maia whose name he does not know and stammers through his wish to speak with Námo so that he can meet his Father. The Maia smiles, says nothing, and bows before disappearing.

Námo comes to him not an hour later, finds him watching the death of Aredhel through the tapestries. He hates the vision; the dawning horror on Turgon’s face, the desperate pain on Aredhel’s, the blind terror on young Maeglin’s...

But he cannot step away from it, either. Perhaps because he knows he could have been there.

“Only technically,” Námo says.

“Lord Námo,” Ñolofinwë says before he has even torn himself fully out of the vision. Reluctantly, his fingers leave the threads building the image of his only daughter.

“I heard you have made up your mind,” Námo says. He is tall and lordly, but somehow not imposing now. “Are you certain?”

“You know I am not,” Ñolofinwë says. “But tell me the truth: do you know me as someone who requires absolute certainty before making a decision?”

“There is no absolute certainty in any case,” Námo says. “Not for the Children. But I do see what you mean.”

A door appears on the wall behind the vala.

“You will find your father through there,” Námo says and reaches out a hand, a pendant on his palm. “Afterwards, you are free to depart. Take this and keep it.”

Ñolofinwë nods, heart in his throat, and puts the chain around his neck. Námo nods to him and disappears, leaving the way to the door open.

Ñolofinwë takes a deep breath and hurries to it, yanking it open.

It leads into darkness, but he doesn’t hesitate to step in. No light penetrates -- he cannot see himself. But as the door closes behind him, the darkness dissipates, and there, far in a corner…

Not only Finwë, but two elves besides. A chill runs up Ñolofinwë’s spine, because  _ of course it is Fëanáro-- _ And the other, he knows, can only be Míriel. They are sleeping, it seems, locked in a tight embrace. He has never before seen Fëanáro look content, but that must be what the look on his face spells.

None of them seem to notice him, but two Maiar look up and bow in welcome. One of them comes to him -- the other goes to Finwë and rouses him.

Fëanáro doesn’t look up, but Míriel does, and Ñolofinwë avoids her gaze with a feeling of  _ guilt. _ Guilt for being born.

A murmur. The Maia with him puts a warm hand on his shoulder and he relaxes, though not enough to look back towards Míriel. Still, he feels something of her spirit, something gentle -- he can’t make out what it is exactly.

“Ñolofinwë,” Finwë’s voice says softly.

Ñolofinwë looks up and meets the gaze of his father. Finwë looks  _ puzzled _ .

“I-I wanted to see you,” Ñolofinwë says.

“Oh,” Finwë sighs and steps closer to put a hand on his shoulder. “Why now?”

“I kept stalling,” Ñolofinwë says softly. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.”

“Why?” Finwë asks and draws him to the side of the room, onto a sofa.

“I don’t know,” Ñolofinwë says, even quieter. He feels like a child all of a sudden. He can’t even look at Finwë. “I thought you… I thought you did not want anything to do with me anymore.”

A silence falls between them. When he dares to look up, he finds Finwë looking at the opposite wall.

“You didn’t even come to the feast of reconciliation,” he prompts. “I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.”

“I had no way of knowing what would happen,” Finwë says and sighs. “Did you?”

“Of course not,” Ñolofinwë says and twists his fingers into his hair. “I didn’t mean that.”

They fall silent again.

“I did not know the living could make it into these Halls,” Finwë then says.

It takes Ñolofinwë a moment to comprehend that -- then a dark, cold feeling settles into his stomach.

“They can’t,” he says. “I died.”

Finwë jerks beside him.

“You died?” he asks.

“Yes!” Ñolofinwë says a little bit louder. “I died! I followed Fëanáro into Middle Earth and I died! Do you have any idea--” He stops himself and puts his face in his hands.

“I knew you went into Middle Earth,” Finwë says. “Fëanáro told me of Findekáno’s bravery.”

“And I came up in a footnote,” Ñolofinwë says. He feels ill. “All of it. Fëanáro’s betrayal, seven years on the Grinding Ice, all the fighting, the fire-- a footnote. Weren’t you curious at all?”

“I trusted you were helping Maitimo lead our people the best you knew how,” Finwë says. “I trusted you would do better than anyone else.”

“Father,” Ñolofinwë says, his voice breaking. “I wasn’t helping Maitimo. He surrendered the crown to me in order to prevent a civil war. I was High King. Didn’t you see the tapestries?”

The silence is his answer. He lowers his hands and stands up.

“I am departing from the Halls,” he says hollowly. “I did not get to say goodbye earlier; I am saying it now. Goodbye, King Finwë.”

“Goodbye,” Finwë says quietly. “Forgive me, my child.”

Ñolofinwë says nothing. Doesn’t even glance back. He goes to the two Maiar who are watching him intensely with their glowing eyes. One of them takes a gown and puts it on his shoulders, the other kisses his forehead.

“Go to sleep,” a voice says.

When he wakes in Lórien, the first thing he does is burst into tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Corrective: I don't think Finwë was ever actively malicious, just completely clueless and co-dependant with Fëanor. Thus, better than Denethor still... not good.


End file.
